


The Telling of Music

by AvistisLights



Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Again, M/M, Oneshot, Other characters mentioned - Freeform, but they're invisible, i'mma have to set up a timeline for these, kinda related to my other moomins works, mainly snufkin, mildly gay if you squint, moomin is mentioned a bit more, snufkin has paws and a tail
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:27:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26941378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvistisLights/pseuds/AvistisLights
Summary: Snufkin perceives his music in a different way than anybody else does.
Relationships: Mumintrollet | Moomintroll/Snusmumriken | Snufkin
Comments: 4
Kudos: 34





	The Telling of Music

Every spring when he would return, a tune would play from his harmonica. It would echo his experiences, his mood, the feeling of a certain wanderlust that had finally been sated. No tune would play twice, as even the birds that echoed it added in their own unique twists. Some found it a shame that these songs would never be played again, but that was what brought him joy about them. Creating just for the sake of creating was what he did best. 

Every spring there would be an echo of the previous tune, manifested in spirit because at its fundamentals, spring was a constant; and so would be an aspect of his song.

When he was late, his tune would tell why. A hard journey, or perhaps a relaxing one. No stakes or high stakes. Scenic views or a wanderlust too great for him to reign in on time. Circumstance or nature, his song would reveal.

There was a careful way in which he crafted them, as while some would remain steady, others may have sudden tonal changes that echoed hardships or perhaps a new friend. 

but another key aspect wasn't just the creation of the song, no, it was how it was played.

The way he played was something many didn't understand. They didn't realize that the changes of pitch weren't built into the song, that they were filled not just with beauty but with emotion. Every time it grew too loud it was to try and stop himself from thinking. When it went quiet it was because playing loudly would sometimes hurt a serene mind. Sometimes he would improvise a section that no longer stood true, or perhaps add on a reprise of a section to convey a slightly different meaning.

All of this was for himself. 

The tune was a calling to others, but the true beauty behind it was something only understood by himself. It was a way to express feelings he couldn't say to others. Because socializing was still a thing he couldn't quite master, and he didn't feel comfortable expressing these emotions because it would take too long to put it to words. It was a way to calm himself, but also a way to energize himself. Passion oozed out of every note that lept from the familiar instrument he couldn't remember ever being without. 

Sometimes, it would be a hobby. It started out as one. But other times it was a coping mechanism.

He would change how he felt to song and let the birds carry it away as if it were a masterpiece, sad or no. Because creativity so raw would always be a masterpiece.

He didn't know if anyone else would truly understand how much it meant to him to be able to channel himself in a way that was so hidden, but so obvious to those who simply listened for meaning. 

Those he met on his travels often heard his music more than his voice, and most praised him for his talent. They suggested he play for money, but he didn't think he would be able. Because if he turned something so special to himself into something just for money, it would loose it's worth to him. The reason it was so special was because of the fact that it was so personal. Because his music wasn't caged, it wasn't confined, maybe that's why he was okay with having it be one of the few things he was truly protective of keeping. The harmonica, no matter how sentimental it would be, could always be replaced if lost. The music would remain with him, because the instrument was only a translator to him. 

He didn't know if he wanted people to figure out the meaning behind his songs.

But he had a small inkling that a certain friend of his was beginning to learn.

Because as he walked out into the clearing, eyes set on the blue walls that soothed a part of him that yearned for familiarity, he met the eyes that peered out from the window. He let his emotions conduct the music in a way that seemed a bit more dull than last spring. It wove a tale of betrayal, being on the run for reasons not understood. Of brief respites being cut off by voices that shouted; that angered. Sleepless nights spent on the move out of fear. Of enjoying the smaller things because anything larger wasn't as beautiful. Of yearning, and finally reaching the comforting embrace of home but without the confidence to lean into open arms.

All of it echoed from within him, and overwhelmed him to a point. 

And he felt that inkling as Moomin rushed over to the bridge to meet him part way. His eyes held a concern in their depths that couldn't and wouldn't be hidden.

Perhaps, looking back on this moment in reflection, the boy knew him better than he expected. 

Without the caution he would take with an action of the sort, Moomin had wrapped his arms around him in a hug. It was gentle, filled with the loving nature only a Moomin could host. And without shame, he allowed himself this. He leaned into the hug that was crafted of a care just for him and simply let himself relax.

He didn't like contact all too much, but he preferred it over feeling the way he was.

And the way he was feeling was something he couldn't quite place, because for all of his love of turning feelings into song, he wasn't quite adept at understanding them.

But, as Moomin led him to the blue house that continued to comfort a certain aspect inside of him, he slowly came to realize what all of it meant.

He watched as Little My caused a ruckus while waiting for food, Sniff proudly proclaiming how much he enjoyed Moominmamma's cooking, and Moominpappa waving him a greeting before continuing to ponder on ideas for his memoirs. He watched as Moominmamma returned from the kitchen and set the plates on the table, noting the extra portion clearly meant for himself. His was smaller than the rest, and he was glad for that. He didn't know if he would be able to stomach a regular Moominhouse meal already.

He simply let himself relax into the calming atmosphere, and felt the small puzzle piece click into place.

_Home._

After everything was said and done, meals finished and thanks given to the talented chef, he slipped outside onto the porch.

He pulled out his harmonica, gloved paws drifting over the surface before lifting it to his lips. He could feel his tail sway behind him, still invisible. Perhaps of note that he could feel it, as often he couldn't. For not only was it invisible, often times it were as if it never even existed.

He brought his thoughts to a stop.

He inhaled, and let his new realization come pouring out.

This time, it wove a new tale. An internal journey filled with hesitance and fear, but also of protectiveness and care. Of coming to terms with a realization that he had made a long time ago but pushed to the side. Of learning how to be cared for, and what it meant for himself. 

It held acceptance and comfort. Even a little bit of love, perchance. 

Of finally realizing he had a place to come back to. It wasn't Moominvalley, no, but instead a certain family that resided there. 

Learning he finally had a home.

And the feeling of being homesick finally faded from inside of him.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, second Moomin fic, here we go. Sat down and wrote for like an hour straight on like an inspiration high, and this was the result. Loosely connected to my other Moomin oneshot. Hope you enjoyed!


End file.
